


Lie Back and Think of Arkadia

by ladyofrosefire



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bellamy Blake is a little shit, Cunnilingus, D/s, Dirty Talk, Domme!Clarke, F/M, Kink Discovery, Light Bondage, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Powerplay, Praise Kink, Public Sex, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safewords, some hairpulling, some marking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-10-09 03:17:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10402614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofrosefire/pseuds/ladyofrosefire
Summary: Written for the 100 kinkmeme: "When they visit a matriarchal Grounder clan, Clarke has to be outwardly dominant over Bellamy so other clan women don't think he's up for grabs. They both find it surprisingly hot.(bonus if they hook up the first night and the next day Bellamy really plays into the role, maybe even public sex)"I hit pretty much everything except them hooking up the night before they screw with an audience





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to softgrungetae for beta reading

They've been here for nearly a full day and the warmth and weight of Bellamy leaning against her leg is just starting to feel normal. Her hand rests on his shoulder, away from the exposed skin of his neck.

Yesterday, he had shifted on the low cushion, reaching to check weapons he was no longer carrying. They had been able to get away with him looking around. Barely. The fidgeting had drawn too much attention, so Clarke had set a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. His shoulders had gone from marble to flesh again. He had leaned into her hand, and into her. Clarke had needed to bite her tongue.

She had woken up that morning with his cock pressing against her thigh.

 

A good-sized fire burns at the center of the meetinghouse’s one room. Fragrant smoke streams up through a hole in the ceiling, but Clarke can still feel it clinging to her hair and coating her throat. The heat stays inside. Sweat trickles down the back of her neck and under the corset strapped around her ribs. It's shaped so it her breathing remains unrestricted, but it presses her breasts up and makes Bellamy stare. She wears a skirt, too, like the rest of the women here. With what they’re here to do, it makes sense. The wide sweep of her borrowed skirt offers at least the illusion of privacy. She’s probably wearing something made especially for this, since every person outside this building wears pants, or leggings, or something where they don't have to think about the feeling of Bellamy's hand on the bare skin just behind her knee. 

Clarke’s hand tightens on his shoulder, nails digging in.

He has the gall to look up at her through those ridiculous lashes and smirk.

They aren't negotiating, not yet. Clarke glances around. Then she moves her hand to his hair, curls it into the strands, and _tugs_.

The groan that breaks from his chest surprises both of them.

Clarke manages not to jump, but the surprise must show on her face, because a few of the women around them laugh. For a heart-stopping moment, she thinks this is it. They'll know she and Bellamy are only partners in one sense of the term. They'll kick him out of the council building, the posturing will start up again, and everything they've been trying to build here will go out through that hole in the roof with the smoke. It isn't like it's been a chore walking around with her hand on his back, or on his arm, all the time. Anything but. But they need what they can win here.

Then one of the women smiles, gestures to the man at her feet, and then around at the other leaders. "It seemed rude to start before our guests. We thought we could… give you time."

The woman next to her snorts and makes a very descriptive gesture at her mouth. "Em nou gaf in taim. Em ste gafen kom em."

When she looks down again, she finds Bellamy intent on studying some irregularity in the floor.

There had been a moment after they had both come awake where she had pressed closer, where his hand had slid down. Then the sounds of the camp had broken through the last of the haze. They had rolled apart, straightening their clothes, and gone to face the leading women again.

They knew what they were doing when they walked in here. They had planned, and talked, and discussed whether they wanted to try faking their way through this. That conversation cut through the last of her worry

 

_“Lie back and think of Arkadia?” Bellamy had suggested, and Clarke had paused in lacing up her corset to snort quietly._  

_"Just... say Arkadia and we'll stop."_

 

Now, she reaches down gently to cup his jaw in her hand. "Bellamy?" 

She watches his Adam's apple bob. The firelight makes his skin glow and catches in his eyes as he raises his gaze to hers. There's something about how he looks at her-- she can't place it, but it makes her breath come faster and a flush flood her face and her chest. He rises onto his knees, turning to face her fully. His hand remains on her leg.

Her fingers slide back into his hair, nails scratching lightly at the base of his skull. Then Clarke leans down and kisses him. She can't tell if the eyes on them spur him on or not. His hands stay down, but his tongue flicks out, light, almost teasing. When she pulls his hair again, his lips part on a groan that never makes it past her mouth.

She leans back, pressing her thighs together beneath her skirt, and then pulls off the loose, shawl-like garment that had covered her shoulders and arms. Her finger rubs over his lower lip, flushed from their kiss and a little damp from when he had licked it at the sight of her. Then she draws a deep breath.

"Take your shirt off."

It comes out slightly louder than she meant it to, but her voice is steady, and Bellamy responds immediately. The way he looks in the firelight makes her fingers itch for a pencil as much as it makes her flush. This time, she spreads her legs and beckons. Bellamy shuffles forward, right to the edge of the cushion. His cheek rests against her thigh, over the skirt. She can feel him breathing.

"Yu na huk em op chit em gaf?" 

Clarke digs her hand into the muscles of Bellamy's upper back, smoothing away the sudden tension. "When I want to."

That gets her approving laughter. More importantly, it makes Bellamy smile.

"That's my princess." It's quiet enough that no one else hears it, but Clarke has to bite back a groan. 

She would call him prince, if she thought it would have the same effect on him as it did on her. Every time he uses it, now, she is going to think of this. Him on his knees between her legs, desire in his eyes and his fingers rubbing maddening circles behind her knee. She reaches down and pushes his hand away.

"Hands behind your back."

This time, her voice comes out hoarse, but she doesn't care. Bellamy blinks up at her. Then he crosses his wrists. He leans against her thigh as she leans over him and uses her wrap to tie his wrists together, finishing it off with a pretty bow. It's loose enough that it won't hurt his circulation, and if he really tried, he could get out. She doesn't plan on making him want to.

Clarke leans back again in her chair. "Okay. Okay, Bellamy--"

He can't push her skirt up, now, so she does it for him, gathering the fabric out of his way. He leaves open-mouthed kisses on her thighs and nips at her skin until she knows she's bruised. Her hips rise, just for a moment, before she grips the arm of the chair and pushes herself back down. Clarke feels Bellamy laugh more than she hears him. It spurs her to reach down and pull him to her. After that, she braces one hand on his shoulder to help him stay upright and the other on the arm of her chair. She forgets their audience, the other people around them lost to their pleasure. Bellamy's mouth wrings sounds from her she barely thinks to hold back. They need to do this again. When they get back to camp, they're going to take some time to themselves, and she'll put him back on his knees again as long as he wants, if it feels as good to him as this does to her.

She doesn't realize she said any of that aloud until Bellamy groans and presses just a little closer. Clarke comes with a cry and his mouth on her clit and he stays there until the shaking of aftershocks gives way to overstimulation. 

His mouth is red, wet, and swollen, and she can make out a flush under the freckles that cover his cheeks. With a sigh, she draws his head down to her thigh again. Her fingers card through his hair in time with their slowing breaths.

"Clarke?"

She opens her eyes and glances down at him, a smile playing around her lips. "You can jerk yourself off now, or you can wait until we have some privacy and fuck me."

Bellamy's jaw works. "I'll wait." Then his teeth brush the inside of her knee, near where his thumb had been before. "Looking forward to it, princess."


	2. Chapter 2

One thing is clear-- they won’t be waiting until they’re in Arcadia for her to put him on his knees again.

She hadn’t really planned before she had said that. Clarke admits it to herself as they reenter the small house this clan had lent them. She can’t make herself wait that long, much less Bellamy. There’s a hunger like an itch under her skin now that she’s seen that look in his eyes. So yes, they could just topple onto their bedroll together and get off, but this-- This is better. This is more in a way that makes her heart pound and her nerves sing.

“Get on your knees.”

Her voice shakes without the smoke and the council’s expectations to bolster her.

Bellamy turns slowly. He swallows hard, the same way he had when she had taken his chin in her hand to make him look at her back in the meeting hall. She can see his shoulders flex under the thin material of his reclaimed shirt.

“Clarke?”

She lets her shawl, the same one she had used to bind his wrists, fall to the floor.

Immediately, Bellamy’s gaze drops. Not to the crumpled pile of fabric, but to the rise of her breasts above the top of the corset. She feels herself blush, but her arms stay by her sides, and her gaze remains fixed on his face. Slowly, his eyes travel up to meet hers. Just as slowly, he sinks down, first to one knee, then both. Then his draws his t-shirt back over his head.

“Is this what you want, princess?”

She steadies herself. All she has to say is that she promised she would get him off another time, but it feels wrong. It feels like surrendering, or turning this into something less than it is. Because she wants him, she wants him for more than this night, or one more when they get back to Arkadia. She wants him badly enough that it makes her shake.

“Almost.” Clarke manages, and swallows to wet her mouth. “Take your pants off, too.”

She’s wet enough that it slicks the insides of her thighs. As she walks toward him, she can feel it, feel blood flowing her to clit and her labia and the accompanying rush of heat.

How much had people seen back in that tent? She wears nothing under the skirt, but she’d had Bellamy’s head between her thighs. He had been facing away from them, too. They had not been able to see the way his cock pushed against the fly of his pants until she had led him out of there--

She had paraded him out of that room and--

“They all know what we’re doing right now.” Clarke breathes.

Bellamy’s hands still.

“Did you change your mind? Because I didn’t.”

The slide of the zipper seems to fill the small space. He sighs a little once he gets his pants down, and then does this sort of shuffle that has no business being as endearing as she finds it. He has to shift and resettle on the mat-covered ground to get his pants the rest of the way off. Then he looks up at her, his hands hovering at the waistband of his boxers.

“Leave those.”

Clarke drops onto her knees facing him. When he sways into her, she lets herself reach out-- She had played with his hair back in the main room. She starts there because it’s familiar, allowed. Safe. The skin of his neck is smooth under her hand. He flinches a little, laughs, and Clarke’s eyes widen a little.

“Don’t even--”

“Not right now.” She promises, although the knowledge that Bellamy Blake is ticklish is something she is definitely going to hang onto.

Her hand wanders to his shoulder, squeezes. When he lets his head fall, she shifts and lets him rest it at the crook of her neck. She can feel him shudder against her as she maps out the faint burn scars on his back.

“They know.” Clarke starts again. “They know I brought you back here. Maybe they don’t know what we’re doing exactly, but they know I’m going to-- to make you come.”

She hasn’t talked like this. To anyone. Ever. But she can feel the hitch in his breathing, the hammer of his pulse. By his sides, his hands flex.

“It’s okay. You can touch me.”

Immediately, they find her hips. She half expects him to pull her against him, and maybe some day she would let him try this with her the other way around, but it doesn’t happen.

She runs her nails down his abdomen, feeling the muscles jump under her hand. “They know I took you in here, put you on your knees. Maybe they think you’re eating me out again, Bellamy. Do you?”

He groans against her shoulder, his hands tightening on her hips.

“Did you-- like--”

“God, yes.” He lifts his head. “Clarke…” Then he kisses her.

He’d had his mouth between her legs before he’d pressed it to hers. She thinks, maybe, that she can still taste it. Clarke groans against his lips and threads her fingers into his hair. Maybe he lets her control the kiss because that’s the kind of person he is, but she doubts it. They kiss slow and sweet, his tongue in her mouth, his chest against hers. It sends heat spiralling through her. All the same, when his hands wander to her ass, she swats them away.

“Only where I tell you to.”

He smirks at her the way he had back in the main building. “Where do you want my hands, princess?”

“By your head. Lie down.”

For maybe a moment, she thinks she may have pushed too far, may have asked too much. Then Bellamy shifts and resettles on their bedroll, stretching out on his back. He brings his hands up so that his wrists lie on either side of his head.

“That’s perfect, Bellamy.” She breathes. “Good. Exactly what I wanted.”

She’s rambling, her nerves running away from her, but Bellamy-- He blinks at her, and then glances away. It’s not shyness. Bellamy could never be called shy. It hits her then how he does this every time. Every time she has hinted at everything he means to her, it seems to shake something in him. He shifts on the furs. Does he want to curl in on himself, or to reach for her? She can’t tell. All she can do is go to him, take his face in her hands, and kiss him until he gasps against her mouth. She settles over him with her knees bracketing his hips.

“Clarke…”

She kisses him, slowly, deeply, and rolls her hips against his.

“Babe.” He gasps against her lips, “Clarke. Princess--”

“ _Patience_.” She murmurs, and nips at his throat, just beside his adam’s apple.

He looks like he might protest until she starts to slide down. She kisses and bites her way down his chest, traces his cut of his hipbones with her tongue, and then mouths over his cock through his boxers.

She stops when one of his hands finds her hair. Clarke does not bother to look up. “Did I say you could move your hands?”

“Fuck--” He tenses beneath her, hips twitching upwards. She can feel it against her cheek when his cock responds. “No, you didn’t. Sorry, sorry--”

“Good. Now don’t move.”

His hands return to where she had put them. She still bites the inside of his thigh, because he had done it to her, and because she wants to hear his little yelp. It makes her clench on nothing.

She tugs his boxers down with shaking hands. If he notices, he’s too busy groaning her name to comment. Clarke hasn’t given that many blowjobs, and she’s probably average at them at best, but no one would be able to tell from the sounds Bellamy makes. He calls out ‘Clarke’ and ‘babe’ and ‘princess’, and then it’s just ‘princess’ like a chant as he shakes with the effort not to move.

She pulls back just before she thinks he’s going to come, and he goes limp on their bedroll.

“Goddamn.” He gasps.

Fresh wetness has gathered between her thighs along with a deep, aching need. Clarke shifts. She’d press her thighs together if she weren’t straddling one of his legs. So, instead, she gets astride both of them and knee-walks up. Her skirt gets a little tangled in the process, almost tripping her up. She catches herself with a hand on his chest.

“May I?” He asked, one hand twitching toward her knee.

Clarke nods, swallows, smiles. “Go ahead.”

Between the two of them, they get her skirt straightened up, and then lifted out of the way. He groans as she rocks against him, letting the head of his cock slide against her. She stifles a moan as it bumps against her clit. His hands grip her a little tighter, just above her knees.

But he does not move.

For a moment, she just watches him. She takes in the tousled mess of his curls, the expression in his beautiful, dark eyes, the way his mouth parts a little as he breathes. She notes the sheen of sweat on his skin, the way his chest rises and falls, the tension in his abdomen.

She’s done this.

She brought him to this point.

“I’m going to ride you, now.” Clarke reaches beneath her skirt with one hand and curls her fingers around the base of his cock. “And you’re not going to come until I tell you.”

Bellamy nods and his throat works. “Yeah--” there’s even more gravel in his voice than usual. “I can do that. Please, Clarke--”

She lifts her skirt with her free hand so he can watch while she takes him into her.

Both of them groan. Clarke lets go of her skirt and braces both hands on his chest. She starts slowly because it’s been a while and because she wants this to last. She wants to feel each drag and push, the heat of him, the way he rocks up just that little bit he can’t seem to help. He’s panting from the effort, his eyes half-lidded and fixed on her. His fingers press hard enough into her legs that she’s pretty sure she’s going to bruise. When the thought makes her tighten around him, Bellamy cries out.

She waits until he begins to writhe beneath her, to turn his head from side to side as if chasing oxygen, and then stops moving altogether.

In that moment, it feels like one of the hardest things she’s ever done.

Bellamy lets out something close to a sob.

“It’s alright.” She leans forward and a shudder runs through him. “You’re doing so well. Hang in there. I’m not done yet.”

Clarke realizes, then, that she could get up and leave him like this. More, that he would let her. That he might decide _not_ to get himself off because she--

She shivers all over and starts moving again.

She can’t make herself start slowly any more than she can stop the litany of praise. _So good_ , she tells him, over and over. So good, he’s doing so well, he looks so fucking gorgeous under her like this. He closes his eyes tight.

Clarke stops. “Look at me.”

He does, and his dark eyes are shining and full of-- full of things neither of them are quite ready to face. She touches his cheek, brushes her fingers through his hair, smiles at him. His skin shines with sweat.

“I want you to keep your eyes on me. Can you do that?”

He swallows, and then nods. “Yeah. Okay. I can handle that.”

“That’s good.” Clarke begins to move atop him again. “You’re doing good. A little bit longer.”

This time, she doesn’t let up. She listens to him groan, call out her name, and then finally beg, nails biting into her thighs as he holds onto his control with gritted teeth. Only then does she take a hand off his chest. She rubs her clit, practically with no finesse, until she comes shuddering and gasping.

Bellay keeps his eyes on her. His teeth sink into his lower lip until she thinks he might make himself bleed.

“Okay.” She gasps. “Okay, you can--”

He’s beautiful when he comes.

 

Clarke eases off of him, once it’s clear it’s become too much, and then settles beside him. She remains there, her hand resting lightly on his chest while they both catch their breath. Eventually, Bellamy turns to face her.

“So…”

“We don’t have to keep--”

He laughs. “Clarke. I was just gonna ask if you want help getting all that off.”

She looks down at herself, and then back up at him.

“I haven’t seen you naked.”

It’s a little strange to blush _after_ all of this, but she does. Then she props herself up and pushes her hair back.

“Okay.”

Bellamy’s gaze remains fixed on her face even as the laces of her corset come loose. She sets it on the closest mat. As she unties her skirt, he leans down to kiss the faint marks left on her breasts and sides. With a sigh, she threads her fingers into his curls.

“I want to keep doing this.” He barely looks up as he says it and his breath tickles her skin.

Her hand curls tighter. “I do, too. Not like this all the time--”

“No. Me neither.”

“Good.”

He lies down, then, beside her, one arm folded behind his head. Clarke settles with her head on his other shoulder. He doesn’t make the softest pillow, and they’re both sticky and warm, but-- it feels right.

Slowly, she begins to run her hand up and down his side. “We should talk about this.”

He nods, and a furrow forms between his brows. “I think most of it can wait--”

“Bellamy--”

“Clarke. I just-- want to know if you meant it.”

She kisses him. Slow and deep and sure, her hand cupping his cheek, her body pressed to his despite the heat and the sweat on their bodies. “Every word.”

His adam’s apple bobs. “That’s, um. Thank you.”

Clarke brings her hand back to rest over his sternum. “Let’s just stay here for a little.”

After a moment, Bellamy shifts and his arm finds its way around her waist. His fingers splay over the small of her back. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Em nou gaf in taim. Em ste gafen kom em."- He doesn't need time. He's thirsty for her.  
> "Yu na huk em op chit em gaf?"- Are you going to give him what he wants?
> 
> My sense of humor is terrible. I'm hoping you've all realized that by now.
> 
> There may be a chapter 2, but I'm heading into finals season, so don't hold your breath.


End file.
